A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [66]
Lenox grimaced. “I don’t know. All I know is that it’s what Collingwood believes. I want to go visit him again.”
In Lenox’s carriage, which had been waiting outside, both men gazed through a window, lost in thought. At last Dallington said, “And Parliament—how has that been?”
“Do you know that saying about answered prayers? No—but it’s wonderful, in its way. It’s just harder than I imagined it would be.”
“Personally I wouldn’t go into that House for love or money. Every man you meet is a stuffed shirt or a bore, or one of those chaps at university who look down on fun. You know the kind—half vicar, half self-righteous scholarship student. If you have a glass of punch in front of them they start to tremble.” Dallington suddenly looked more ruminative. “Do you think you’ll continue to do this? To take cases?”
He sighed. “I don’t know. It’s too difficult to balance them, and I can’t help but wonder whether perhaps my ability in each pursuit has suffered for the other.”
Dallington’s face, which was usually on the verge of a smile, now looked concerned. “More than just losing a teacher, I worry at London losing you. Many men can sit in a room and talk nonsense, as they seem to do in Parliament, but fewer can go to a prison and phlegmatically sit with a confessed murderer.”
Lenox’s own face, which he turned again to the window, showed that it was a point he had considered himself.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Money changed hands, there was a brief wait, and then they were led into the same room. What was different in it was Collingwood.
The butler looked as if his insides had been hollowed out. Whether this was because of some emotion—guilt? sorrow for Paul?—or because the full terror of his situation had alighted on his mind, it was impossible to tell. But something was affecting him powerfully.
“Sunshine,” he said to them dully. “That’s welcome enough.”
Lenox glanced up at the small, high window in the room. It was brighter today. “Your cell is dark?”
“What did you want from me, gentlemen?”
Dallington and Lenox exchanged a look. “Just the truth,” said Lenox. “I understand you confessed to killing Freddie Clarke?”
“Yes.”
“You were lying before, then, when first we visited you?”
“Yes.”
Dallington looked at him critically. “You were remarkably full of conviction, my dear man. I daresay you could make a living on the stage. The deceiver’s parts—Aaron the Moor, say, or Iago. When this is all over, I mean.”
“When this is all over?” Collingwood coughed out an astringent chuckle at the thought.
“Mr. Collingwood, I came to ask you one question: Did you confess to protect Paul Starling?”
Collingwood could say what he wanted next, but his face gave him away entirely. “No—no—bizarre thought—” he stammered out, barely suppressing his shock.
“Did you attack Ludo Starling to shift the blame onto yourself, the suspicion? I can think of no other reason why you might have done it.”
“The God’s honest truth is I don’t know anything about the butcher’s apron or the knife. I was drinking a cup of tea and reading the newspaper when that happened, Mr. Lenox.”
“I believe you,” said Lenox.
“And Paul?” asked Dallington.
“May I return to my cell now?”
“Your cell! Certainly not.”
“Then I shall be silent.”
“Like Iago indeed,” said Lenox. “In that case, let me tell you a story—a drama, if you will. In the days after Frederick Clarke’s death, you had no idea who had killed him.”
“I did it, for God’s sake!”
“You didn’t; my dear fellow, you really didn’t. You had no reason to.”
“I did,” he said tiredly.
“To continue—only after you had been arrested did you realize—or were you told?—that Paul Starling was guilty. In order to protect him, you confessed. When he’s overseas, you’ll tell the truth and, you hope, go free.”
“I don’t see why they would believe you, though,” murmured Dallington.
“That’s true; you may swing either way,” said Lenox.
Collingwood’s face, so mobile during their conversation, transformed now into a mask of fear. “I can’t hang.”
“Confessions are